The Story Which Has No Name
by Kang Xiu
Summary: blinks innocently at title:: Completed. Feuilly asks a favour but his position soon grows uncomfortable; ultimately, he may be forced to make a friend.
1. Chapter One

_The Story Which Has No Name: Chapter One_

* * *

It was raining again. 

Feuilly hated the rain, quietly but fiercely, for obstructing his work and taking his time and getting through the cracks in his walls and making his bedclothes damp. He hated it for making mould grow in the corners of the ceiling and making great grey-brown puddles of foul water and mud all over the streets. He despised it, viewed it with a lip-curling disgust, for wetting just the cuffs of his trousers and making them chafe his ankles, and for getting in his hair and for spoiling his paint and for making a horrible, continuous drip-drip-drip noise in the empty tins laid out to catch it when it fell into his room through the windows that never quite shut.

Lately, all it had done was rain, almost constantly, since the beginning of the week. He had tried at first to barricade himself in his room with his fans and his paints, and then had tried loafing at every café he could find, buying only enough coffee to keep from being thrown out but not enough that he would squander his precious sous and centimes, and finally, when all else failed, gone to visit a girl he knew in the Rue St. Michel and camped at her place, gloomily staring out the window at the grey sky while she put on rouge and painted her lips bright red.

"God damn it," he grumbled aloud. "Doesn't it ever let up?"

"Why should it, dearie? It doesn't have to go to work." The girl adjusted her bodice several times and rearranged her hair.

"God_ damn_ it."

"Well, you don't have to stay here. I've got to find a customer, and he'll want to come back here. It'd be rather awkward, you in the same room. Unless you want to join in. Some of them like that."

"You're disgusting."

"You should have eaten something this morning," laughed the girl. "God, you're a bastard when you're hungry. You can still get a pound of bread and potatoes for under a franc if you're clever and know where to go. Go on, why don't you? I don't need you hanging about in my rooms while I'm trying to earn my living."

"God." Feuilly groaned and stood up lankily, and a cloud of plaster dust blew off him as he did so. He had been worrying at a crack in the wall since he'd come.

"What're you doing now, ripping down my walls?"

"They don't need the help," said Feuilly, and he shook himself once over. "I don't want to go out."

"Bad luck. Try the bistro at the end of the street. Bread and potatoes, or at least bread and coffee. Good job you don't smoke like most boys of your sort; that saves you francs a year, you know."

"Yes, I know. Goodbye."

He shut the door a bit too loudly on his way out, and slipped silently down the stairs, growling and casting vicious glances at the curses scrawled on the walls that even the rain couldn't damp out, and the dust piles in the corners of the steps, and the grey, depressing light at the end of the stairwell, which was all there was to get out to. He swore several times under his breath, in Polish and in French, and hoped that all rich men in tight, dry houses might one day find themselves scrabbling for work in eternal places of rain, mixing mistily with all the foul smells and making them smell even fouler.

Without, however, anywhere to go or anything better to do with himself on a late Saturday when most of the working men were busily getting drunk in the bistros and cafés, he made his way wearily to the place the girl had mentioned, and bought a pound of tough, tight, cakey bread, and a cup of black coffee to soak it in. The more pieces he tore roughly off and dipped, the more their crumbs made a sludgy dark mess in the cup; but it was food, at any rate, and the girl had been right about his not eating breakfast (although breakfast was regularly another cup of coffee, for dinner was the only food meal he ate in a day. Not buying tobacco didn't help as much as she made it sound it would, and Feuilly didn't waste money when he didn't need to). Men talked with one another loudly behind him, but he ignored them bitterly, and wiped out his coffee cup with his forefinger to get all there was inside.

How good it must be to have money, he thought spitefully. How very good. This was stupid and senseless of him, for hardly any of the men had more money than he did, being cobblers, waiters, dishwashers, beggars, Jews, workers, and a few special artists, such as he was, who did a certain useless craft because rich people and bourgeoisie liked it-for example, the caricature artists, the organ-grinders, the handbill distributors, the men who sold trinkets they found in rich men's gutters, the flower vendors, and the paper folders. All these were useless trades, but they caught the eyes of the casual and wealthy, who were excited by pretty rustic things. Plenty of them would imagine that the fellow with the barrel organ was the very picture of a peasant scene, give him a couple of centimes, and go on, not aware that he intended to spend it on a squalid room in a bug-infested hotel, or a few slices of dearly-bought bacon, or tobacco, or a whore. At any rate, the fellow with the barrel organ had no more money than Feuilly did; he just didn't mind squandering his on brandy and gin and having a splendid time getting drunk with his friends, while Feuilly spent his on a bit to eat and then brooded over it. It made Feuilly quite spiteful, partly because he had no friends to waste his Saturday night with, and no interest in being drunk.

He was, in fact, humiliated by drunkenness, by the loss of control and the disgusting things one said and the revolting things one did, and the stink and the vomit and the rolling in the street and the shouting of loud, stupid, blasphemous things and the weaving walk. It didn't merely irritate him; it made him feel ill. He had never actually been drunk, being far too put off it by watching other men.

Now he glared at the empty coffee cup without wishing for more, made several irritable comments to the tabletop about his fellow-man, and at last got up to go, because one could only loaf around in a bistro so long when one wasn't buying anything.

The rain was still drizzling down outside, and he escaped the Rue St. Michel in favour of the Rue St. Mathieu, which was only marginally better. At least there were a few respectable-looking establishments, and the cafés weren't as close together or as grimy or quite as full and noisy. Feuilly wandered around for a little while as the sun went down gradually and made everything go duskish, contemplating what it would be to go into one of them; but before he had decided entirely whether he wanted to waste his money or not, he was accosted, completely unexpectedly, by a soft, shy voice of remarkable, quite pleasing, smoothness. It was someone he knew.

Feuilly's mind, clever and quick, decided in a moment to get something from the meeting. A man who has never had much money knows how to make a profit from anything, from a dead bird in the gutter or a declaration of love.

"Feuilly? Oh, it is."

"Yes, it's me. Hello."

"Oh, dear, you're soaking. I should offer you my umbrella to walk under, but it's not big enough for more than one. Well, perhaps-" There was a fumbling in the wet darkness, and suddenly the rain was no longer soaking the back of Feuilly's neck. "-There. Is that better?"

"Drier, at any rate; but it doesn't matter. Keep your umbrella for yourself."

"I shan't do that. Are you all right? I can't imagine you're anything short of freezing when you're wet like this. The rain's coming down in _torrents_ now."

"I'm mildly discomforted, but a beggar is never less than that. I have a proposition to make you."

"All right. But come on, let's go in." They had paused near a large, brightly-lit café. "I'll buy you a drink. I'm cold myself, and men think better when they're comfortable."

"Very well," said Feuilly reluctantly, quickly weighing pride against common sense and seeing quite clearly the fact that he was out here cold and tired, and inside would not only be warm and able to sit down, but also have something to drink with the added benefit that someone else would be paying. It was too great a temptation to resit. "Very well," and he allowed himself to be shown inside, the door held open for him as the umbrella was shaken off outside and folded up. "God! It's a horrible night."

"Is it much worse than usual?"

"I hate the rain."

"Oh. Of course."

They went to the bar and Feuilly stood to the side; as he was not paying, he would not order; the responsibility went to the other fellow, partly with respect and partly relief.

"There you are. I haven't seen you lately-you are all right, aren't you?"

"Entirely," said Feuilly, which was a lie. He was tired and annoyed and out of work again, because he solicited to people out walking, and, with the rain, no one ventured. It was just another reason to despise the rain, to glare at the weather, to be disgusted with the elements, but it also meant he was hungrier than usual, and the pound of bread and black coffee had been the last of his weekly allowance to himself.

"Good. Because I was getting worried... But now. You said you had a proposition. What's wrong? Is there something I can help with?"

Feuilly wrinkled his nose at the word 'help'. "To some extent, yes. I'm running out of ideas, and you've always got thousands. You're always inspired, or at least it looks that way from your discussions with Bossuet and Joly and Rideau."

"Well, perhaps. I just work. But you, you're-"

"Running out of ideas, yes. What do I make for my fans? It's like being one of those English sidewalk artists, you understand-it's all very well to be pretty or interesting, but one must be _current_. There must be some attraction in the art that amuses, entices, these rich fellows who buy my work. I haven't got it."

"In the Japanese islands they write poetry on their fans, so that it's art in two forms. One has the looked-at appeal, the picture, and the poetry, which can be read, engages the mind. There's a subtlety, too, for the picture can emulate the poetry and make something the verse by itself could never achieve. One can be ironic or sentimental or insightful, because the two things compliment each other, they make one another greater. ...Is that what you meant?"

"That's good. Do I find books with poetry in them somewhere?" Feuilly asked, plain and straightforward, looking for the right response by using guilt.

"I could write some, if you thought I could do well enough."

The right response. Feuilly gave the smallest of secret smiles, and bent his head briefly to accept the offer. "I should be pleased."

"All right. Would you like it in a week? I wish I could do it sooner, but sometimes it takes a while, and I'm not sure. At any rate, by the end of the week? I'm sure that's all right."

"It's all right with me. Thanks." He put out his hand, and his companion shook it gently, almost foppishly. Directions to a hotel in a much better part of Paris were given. They then finished their drinks more or less in silence, and parted, and Feuilly returned to his wet apartment rooms, where the tins to catch the rain had overflowed and water was trickling along the floors, and a stray cat had taken refuge in his rooms to avoid the cold outside.


	2. Chapter Two

_Chapter Two_

* * *

In a week, Feuilly went to collect his poetry. He awoke early in the morning and, because it was a new week and he had a new two francs on which to manage, he went to a bistro and had a cup of black coffee and sucked on a lump of sugar that had been stolen, with utmost dexterity, from the plate of a wealthier customer, who was now loudly complaining about the loss. As Feuilly watched, a waiter brought him a new one instantly, and the whole commotion died down. If he had had any guilt about it, this would have successfully eliminated it. 

After breakfast, he set out, pausing once or twice as people noticed him. A woman in an expensive dress and wrap stopped him and asked whether he knew the way to Araignee the seamstress' shop, and a fellow of his own sort, a ragged fellow, made small talk about the good weather they were having at last and how his flowers were finally selling again. Feuilly muttered something short and not very sympathetic, and went on.

By the time he reached the hotel, it was nearly midday, and he paused briefly, wondering if he wasn't going to come upon an empty room whose occupant was out having lunch at one of the innumerable cafés and bistros, or even at a restaurant, a prospect so luxurious that although he refused to be impressed by it, he still hardly considered it, which betrayed him as duly impressed, indeed. Well, in that case, he considered, he might stay and wait, although time was rather an important thing for a man who worked. For a man who worked, time could not be wasted, thrown away, or treated lightly. Everything hinged upon time. He must be at his work at a certain time, he must count hours. He must make sure he only slept as he could spare the time, that he only ate when there was time, that he only waited so long at a door or with a potential customer before he must move on. Of course, it was Saturday again, and the working-men would be getting off work soon and going out to get drunk, and time was not exactly as precious as it was during the week; but being as careful with it as with money was something he had learnt all his life, and it was hard to shake it off, even for a day, or an afternoon. Besides, his work continued all week long.

However, he went in, he questioned the concierge; he went up, he knocked. The door wasn't opened and no one answered as he knocked a second time, but there was some sound of movement beyond, and he waited. When there was no further noise, he went down again, but the concierge assured him that the boy who rented that room was still in to-day, so he returned. He knocked again. Finally, he pushed the door open gingerly, almost comically, with one finger, and peered around the corner of the doorframe.

Almost at once, he began coughing hard.

The room was lightly misted with smoke, but filled with a strong, eye-stinging scent, apparently from a combination of candles, incense, tobacco, and opium, and he stepped back, bewildered, because it seemed he had got the wrong room-

"Prouvaire?" he muttered dubiously, putting his head forward again.

The young man who sat on the bed at the far side of the room was smiling, looking pale, ill, and intoxicated. He shook his head abstractedly and waved a hand unsteadily at the smoke around him, and his eyes focused and unfocused on Feuilly as he struggled to stay upright.

"Thassme," he said, slurring his words slightly. "It's good to see you-F-f-feuilly. God, I'm tired."

So Feuilly approached, feeling rather repulsed, and stood stiffly in front of the bed, looking down at the young man who beckoned to him with shaking hands, as though he were an old man.

"Well, then. What's happened to you?" he demanded roughly, wiping at his eyes because the smell was still stinging them horribly.

"Nothing, can't write... Always happens when I can't write..."

"Then you're not done with my things, I suppose?"

"No, I-I mean, yes, yes, yes..." Prouvaire trailed off, looking around, still smiling foolishly, but seeming rather lost. He seemed to have forgotten what he was going to say. "Always do th' things I need to, first... 'M a man of my work. Word. My-" He struggled upright. "God. Tired. Hm. Er. Hmm."

"I suppose, in that case, I can have them?" Being so sharp was the only way he could keep himself from leaving at once. It was revolting; it was what he hated so much about drunkenness. Everything about Prouvaire was uncontrolled and lolling, horribly unconcerned and unashamed. He swallowed with some difficulty and repeated his question, wanting to shake Prouvaire and yet hating the idea of touching him in that state.

"Yes, yes, of course... Hate not writing. Hate it... Try so hard, got everything just right, and... and... nothing works." He gestured again, clutched at Feuilly's arm, only to have it quickly removed from reach. "Can't think of it..."

"Where are my things?"

"In-in-th' desk, under Catullus... Wish I was Catullus... He could-could write in Latin. Could he? Can't think of it. Catullus. He... drank hemlock. 'Spose there wasn't opium in Roma..."

Feuilly curled his lip with displeasure and dug through the mess on the desk. His poetry was underneath not only Catullus, but half a dozen unfinished epics and six volumes of contemporary poets, and three days' worth of rubbish newspapers. He could only tell what was his because it was marked, in good, fine, tutored handwriting, 'Feuilly' on the cover. He fished it out and tucked it under his arm.

"Thank you. Good-bye," he said, over-pronouncing his words.

"Not going?"

"Certainly. I have what I came for."

"I n-need water-or tea, n-neeed-oh-tea, I-" Prouvaire tried to get upright again. "I-you're-"

"I'll have some sent up."

Once he was out in the passage again, Feuilly wiped the stinging smell from his eyes and made a soft, frustrated noise. He had _liked_ Prouvaire. He had _trusted_ Prouvaire. He would not ask for an explanation, of course, but if Prouvaire didn't offer one, he was never going to be able to look him in the face again. God _damn _it, he muttered, and clutched the papers close on the way home.


	3. Chapter Three

_Chapter Three_

* * *

The second week after, he met Prouvaire once more, quite by accident. It was at a different café, one in the Rue St. Michel, where Feuilly was having boiled potatoes and black coffee for supper. He was actually twice as rich to-day as he had been upon the same day last week, but it was as impossible to stop being frugal as it was impossible to treat time lightly on a Saturday. He didn't trust himself to use money unwisely for a single day, because he might easily get into the habit of it. 

So he ate boiled potatoes the same way he always ate them, which was as quickly as possible, because he had never learnt to eat slowly in order to make food last longer; he had learnt the other cliché, to bolt it for fear that it might be stolen from him. He drank the coffee more slowly, because that was more difficult to steal, and because he wanted it to last after the potatoes were gone, and he was afraid that if he drank as much as he'd like there would be none left.

When Prouvaire came in, it was quietly, shyly, with the kind of rare dignity that comes from being gentle and rich, both considerate and spoiled. He was toying with an embroidered handkerchief that was tied about the handle of his stick, and his face was its usual pale colour, his usual gentle expression. He looked very little like the tousled, foolish, drunken boy on the bed from a week ago, and yet he looked very like him. Feuilly glanced at him guardedly from his table and wondered what he was doing there.

Prouvaire looked around the room cautiously, as the other men turned toward him for a moment, making a soft murmur at the sight of so wealthy a young fellow appearing in a café meant for poor working-men, but went back to their suppers and their drinking because he was not really as interesting as themselves and their own conversations. Even a wealthy young fellow does not command as much attention as all _that_, for all he prides himself of catching everyone's eye and causing an admiring, or a jealous, stir. When Prouvaire caught sight of Feuilly, he went over, and stood before his table awkwardly.

"Good evening."

"Good evening," said Feuilly, swallowing a mouthful of coffee.

"I wish to apologise."

"Sorry?"

"For last week. Sometimes, I have periods of inactivity when it is difficult for me to get down on paper any of the things I feel in my heart or have in my mind, and it frustrates me. It is clear to me that you have been exceptionally disgusted by the display you witnessed, and I beg your pardon."

Feuilly had all but forgotten that he'd wanted to get an explanation, but he tilted his head and looked at Prouvaire more closely. "Sit."

Prouvaire did.

"I had hoped that you might forgive me if I made things clear."

"Yes, of course. Where in hell do you get your candles and all that other mess?"

"I purchase candles and tobacco at separate shops in Paris. I bought the incense and opium at an opium den when I was in London, though I'm certain that if I looked for it here I could find it." Prouvaire smiled, whitely, and added, "My matches come from a shop in the Rue St. Mathieu that also sells wicks and tacks."

"I apologise," said Feuilly. He didn't really mind overstepping boundaries of this sort as a rule, but he felt slightly displeased with himself for being inquisitive with Prouvaire.

"No need. Did my poems suit?"

"Excellently. Between them and the sudden warm weather, I've become a man of means. I need not worry about supper to-morrow, for example, or the next day. I have at least a week before it's a concern again."

"I'm glad."

"Yes," said Feuilly, musingly.

They sat silently for several moments, and Feuilly, realising that his coffee had begun to grow cold, picked up his cup and drank from it quickly. Prouvaire continued to toy with the embroidered handkerchief.

"I suppose your mistresses enjoy your poetry," Feuilly said at last.

"I have none."

Once more they were silent.

"Well, this is very queer. I started out trying to earn money and seemed to have forced us into an acquaintance. I even know something improprietous about you now. We will acknowledge one another in public because we can't pretend not to know each other any longer."

"That is queer, indeed," said Prouvaire, smiling less wanly now. "Perhaps it is how some friendships begin."

"Perhaps it is. What kind of friendship is it, though? We aren't destined to be lifelong friends, are we? Or are we just casual acquaintances? Or are we the sort of friends who meet on weekends, or the sort who meet for supper? Are we obliged to call on one another, or is it only a necessity when we feel like it?"

"You're asking too many questions about it too early. It must go as it will. Such things always do."

"Presumably. I bow to your superior knowledge."

"You've never been in a friendship before?"

Feuilly paused reflectively. He considered, for a moment, and to his utmost surprise, couldn't think of anyone he would really have called a friend. Of course he _knew_ people, but he didn't like many of them. He had talked with hundreds of men, perhaps half as many women, and he had still liked hardly any of them. He was never lonely. He was only annoyed with other humans and their faults and their innumerable shortcomings. He looked at Prouvaire and shrugged. "Perhaps. I don't recall."

"You do need a friend, then." Prouvaire rested a hand lightly on his arm.

"Yes, well, we'll see."

"So we will. Will you be busy next Saturday?"

"I don't know. I'll probably be soliciting to unsuspecting bourgeois gentlemen going about their business of strolling in the afternoon and convincing them they need yet another useless thing to clutter their homes with."

"If I were to be one of those unsuspecting gentlemen, I suppose we might meet and exchange greetings?"

"We might."

"We might go for a drink after your work was finished?"

"We might."

Prouvaire laughed, a strange, shy, gentle laugh that bore his cultured accent. "Very well. I believe I'll look forward to my afternoon walk, then next Saturday. I hope you'll find time to come back to Les Amis, as well, some time soon. We have all been missing you. Courfeyrac wonders often where you've gone."

"It's only been two weeks," said Feuilly irritably, glancing at Prouvaire to be certain he was telling the truth.

"Two weeks is a long time."

"All right. Perhaps I'll be there this week. When is it?"

"On Thursday evening, at six o'clock. Perhaps I'll see you there."

"Perhaps."

Prouvaire stood. "Well, then. That's a pleasing thought. Good evening, Feuilly. Thank you."

"Yes, yes," Feuilly said carelessly. "Good evening."

Then, with a sudden, secret sort of smile, Prouvaire did something entirely unexpected. He leaned forward and shook Feuilly's hand, a warm, dry clasp that lasted hardly a moment, and then turned away. As he left, he looked back with bright, pleased eyes, and lifted a hand in farewell, touched the brim of his hat, and disappeared.

Feuilly sat silently for a moment, staring thoughtfully at his coffee cup and keeping his hand exactly as it had fallen when Prouvaire released it. At last, he rose. He would need to reorganise his time yet again, and very carefully, if he wanted to be with Les Amis at six o'clock on Thursday.

* * *

_Fin _


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